


An Apple A Day Keeps the Archer Away (it's okay, he's just using it as target practice)

by Star_less



Series: the 'snips, snails, puppy-dog tails' verse [2]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avenger Peter Parker, Bed-Wetting, Clint Barton-centric, Desperation, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Infantilism, Not Canon Compliant, Omorashi, Peter Parker Joins the Avengers, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker-centric, Peter is very much a little kid in this one, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Team as Family, Wetting, op does what she wants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 15:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19726582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_less/pseuds/Star_less
Summary: With Tony, Steve, Natasha and Bruce on mission duty, Clint is left with the toughest mission of all: babysitting Peter. Considering Peter's age, Clint quite thinks that Peter will keep out of his way.(He doesn't, and in the meantime Peter attempts to be semi decent at archery and Clint learns a secret.)





	An Apple A Day Keeps the Archer Away (it's okay, he's just using it as target practice)

**Author's Note:**

> Was never a fan of this one. Which is a great start. But, it's time is here, it's time is now. Frankencanon, literally most of the movies are hand waved, what's civil war, endgame, FFH? We don't know those here! it's 2012 and everything is GROOVY baby! Blah blah. Contains everybody's favourite... infantilism - I write Peter younger than he is, sorry not sorry! - and OMORASHI, if that isn't for you, click back and find something better (or find something better regardless lol)

Pulling himself out of bed, Peter smiled to himself. Despite the events of the evening before (he had woken up soaked and had to go and find Steve) he hadn’t wet the bed again upon returning. It had, by something short of a miracle, been kept dry overnight after his one twilight meeting. Of course, as sweet as it was to wake up dry, the teenager was, firstly, exhausted - and second, absolutely fit to bursting; and so the smile that had swept onto his face was quickly tugged into a grimace. “Holy shit!” he hissed to himself, eyes widening as he started to sprint down the hallway as fast as his full bladder would allow him. He was sure that he’d never had to go for a pee this bad before, ever, in his life (yeah, worse than that time when he drank all the new smoothies Mr. Delmar started creating!)  
“Oh… please, please be free…” the teenager whispered pleadingly to himself as he eyed the bathroom at the end of the hallway, his voice squeaky with need. The bathroom at the end of the hallway was his, Mr. Stark had said. He was going to do some re-jiggling of the layouts so that Peter eventually got his own en-suite like the rest of the team, but for now, that bathroom in the corner of the hallway was Peter’s.  
…Peter just prayed with every fibre in his body that no one had decided to use it. Skidding to a relieved stop outside the close door, the teenager jiggled the doorknob hopefully. His quiet hissed ‘please’s became slightly more frantic, his eyes wide, glisteningly hopeful. 

It was locked shut. 

“Just a second, kiddo!” Someone called from inside the bathroom, humming. 

It sounded like Clint, so Peter whimpered a little and knocked again, his free had beginning to nervously tug at the front of his pajama bottoms. “It’s an emergency!” He said sheepishly, digging his toes into the carpeted floor. Oh please, Mr. Barton, Peter thought to himself, please hurry up… 

At this admission, Peter heard Clint cursing from inside the bathroom, and suddenly things got done a whole lot quicker.  
“Shit, I’m so sorry kiddo, go!” The archer replied breathlessly as he unlocked the door, letting the kid dart past him. Peter barely had time to wait until Clint was out of the bathroom before he was peeing something chronic, gasping in relief as he emptied.  
Clint stepped out of the bathroom to give him privacy, whistling sympathetically as he heard how much the boy was going - well, it was almost impossible not to. Sounded like he’d gotten there just in time.  
“Breakfast with me and the others in fifteen minutes okay bud?” He confirmed… before darting down a few floors so he, too, could finish off what he’d started.

Stepping through to the kitchen, Peter looked around. Partly he was awestruck - he’d never seen this much… stuff for breakfast before, they were positively spoilt! - but partly he was looking for Mr. Stark, and Mr. Rogers too. He felt very close to that pair in particular, and had been looking forward to having breakfast with them - but the only people in the kitchen were Clint, Mr. Banner, and Ms. Romanov. The smile that had been on his face previously, slid off a little. “Where is Mr. Stark? Mr. Rogers?” he shyly asked the trio, shifting on the balls of his feet. Mr. Banner and Ms. Romanov looked up at him, and Peter felt as though he was under a spotlight, a little intimidated. He hadn’t been introduced to Mr. Banner or Ms. Romanov just yet. Come to think of it, he hadn’t been introduced to Mr. Barton either, but their hurried meeting this morning seemed like introduction enough. 

“Didn’t Clint tell you?” Bruce asked the child softly, putting down his coffee mug. “Tony ’n Steve got called out to a mission earlier this morning. Nat’s heading off now, so am I. You’re going to have to spend a little time with Clint today.” He explained. Peter nodded all the while, the worried expression on his face disappearing as he heard this. He didn’t mind, Mr. Barton seemed friendly; although he couldn’t quite hide the fact that he was a little disappointed he hadn’t been chosen to help out on the mission.  
Ms. Romanov picked up an apple on her way out. “Don’t worry, kid,” she murmured softly, “You’ll get your time to shine soon, just not quite yet. Your mission today is to stop Barton playing with his food.” She told the teenager dryly. Peter frowned, confused, but then noticed the archer in the background lining up his arrows with the apples in the fruitbowl, all the while pulling faces at the back of Natasha’s head.  
Peter started to giggle. “Alright, Ms. Romanov.”

“It’s Nat, kid. Have fun. C’mon, big guy.” she called softly, heading out the door with Bruce, who gave her a shy glare. Peter shook his head and headed back inside to have breakfast. He missed Steve and Tony already, but he was sure that a day with Clint would be okay.

No sooner had their other teammates left, the atmosphere in the kitchen devolved into an awkward silence. Clint settled at the breakfast table - although he did make a point of pulling out a chair so Peter could join him. "What would you like for breakfast, sport?" Clint asked conversationally with a smile. 

Peter settled with a small, overwhelmed shrug. "Whatever you have?" his voice came out thin and timid. Clint recognised it all too well and offered him a sympathetic smile. "Well, there's fruit, cold cuts, cereal... and a shit ton of breakfast pastries," he listed. “…Tony’s responsible for those. It's as if he thinks we're a damn patisserie." he added as an afterthought, gleaming proudly when it earned him a short giggle from Peter (even if it wasn't particularly funny.)

"Um," the teenager thought it over in his head. "I'll have.. one of those rolls with chocolate in." he requested. 

"Pain au chocolat? Coming right up." Clint smiled, going to heat one in the oven. "Anything to drink?"

Peter shrugged once more, still a little overwhelmed. Humming to himself in thought, Clint put the pastry into the oven and turned to face Peter. "You know, I make a mean fruit smoothie." he grinned wickedly. His children loved it, anyway... perhaps Peter would too, even if he was a little older. "You wanna try it out?"

Peter hesitated, then nodded with a small smile. He sat at the table and swung his legs in between watching Clint prepare his smoothie; looking up in awe as Clint placed a pale yellow smoothie in front of him. "Peanut butter and banana smoothie," he announced, a proud grin on his face. Peter's movements were still slow and unsure. What if it tasted bad? He didn't want to disappoint Mr. Barton if it didn't taste very good... Hesitantly, he took a sip. It.. it wasn't bad. It was actually pretty yummy. Clint really was good at making smoothies!  
"I like it," he whispered shyly, sipping. "I really like it." By the time breakfast was done, Peter had polished off not one, but three of Clint's smoothies. Even then, he had only given up because his stomach was uncomfortably full and he couldn't have fitted in an extra drop as much as he'd wanted to. "Whew," he giggled, leaning back in his chair as the smoothie settled in his belly. "Now what are we gonna do?" 

"We..? You wanna spend some time with me?" Clint asked, blinking as he processed this. To be honest, he hadn't expected to be entertaining the teenager today - he didn't really put Peter in the same league as he did his children, and had assumed Peter would like to spend as much time away from him as possible. Plus, how would he even entertain a teenager?! He was only used to entertaining his children, and they were markedly younger; they enjoyed it when Clint built forts with them, or played tag in the backyard. He was pretty sure Peter wouldn't be very impressed with that. "Well, I'm only going to practise my archery, champ, I'm not sure you'll enjoy it?" he questioned, his voice a little uneasy but he understood if Peter pulled a face and said no. 

"Yeah, archery! That sounds so cool, can I practise with you?" Peter gasped, leaning forward in his chair. He had seen Clint practising his archery as he'd moved around the tower, and had secretly thought it was cool, and secretly hoped that Clint would teach him some day. Clint was surprised that the kid wanted to join in, but nodded all the same. "Sure thing, kid, I'm sure I've got a spare set." he agreed, "Let's go outside."  
~

Outdoors, the two enjoyed a peaceful afternoon. Clint had lent Peter one of his bows and some arrows, with the strictest instruction to be careful with them, and had been giving Peter a quick fire lesson. "Watch this," Clint smiled, twisting to face the apple tree in the yard. It wasn't quite in season yet - well, it would be had Clint not been shooting holes through the produce. There was a single apple hanging on a branch, basking in the sunshine. The archer drew back his arrow with a look of pure concentration, eyes glinting. The arrow sailed forth, slicing through the air and piercing the apple with ease. The apple fell to the grass with a plop, arrow still sticking out of it.

Peter, 'wow'ed softly. "I wanna try!" he squeaked, clapping and trying to watch Clint's position. Clint chuckled, helping Peter straighten his arms and point his body correctly. "Try this." he instructed. Peter drew back with a childish look of concentration on his face, tongue poking just-so through his teeth. His arrow shot forward but rather than sail through the air with the same effortlessness as Clint's, it sunk and bounced off the tree like something out of a comedy skit. Peter scoffed, outraged. “I gotta try again!”

Clint simply chuckled. They carried on for a hour like this, with Peter trying doggedly to take a good shot. Thirty minutes in Peter was beginning to fidget slightly, moving his weight from side to side. Those smoothies had hit him seemingly all at once... Peter was having too much fun to put a halt to his games, though. And just how embarrassing would that be - for him to stop Mr. Barton just so he could use the toilet, like a child?!  
His movements were noticeable enough for Clint to pause and squint at him, but considering Peter remained tight lipped, the archer simply shook it off. Peter was not one of his children, and he would ask to use the toilet if he so badly needed to. 

When Peter grew tired of this he pleaded for Clint to let him do some web shooting practice... and so he did. Clint stood a little way away firing arrows into the air for Peter to catch, eyeing the child every now and then.  
Peter's fidgeting had increased a little now, and he was trembling a little too. Thinking Clint wasn't paying too much attention to him, he had let his guard down considerably. His web shooting was a little off, and his hand was gravitating toward his crotch to give himself small squeezes. Sometimes, when he thought Clint couldn't see, he'd give himself a big squeeze and go back to what he was doing. It worked, to a point, although sometimes he would have to try very very hard to hold back the little whimpers that wanted to tease themselves out of his mouth if the pressure in his bladder got a little too fluttery. 

Clint watched him, amused, between toying with his bow and arrow. If the kid thought he was being subtle, he certainly wasn’t. Or perhaps that was simply Clint’s trained eyes at work. Peter’s movements almost became like a routine:

Shoot web.  
Wriggle.   
Shoot web.   
Grab himself a little.

It was when the routine devolved into,

Shoot web.  
Grab himself a little.  
...Grab himself a little more.  
Wriggle. Wriggle... wriggle wriggle..

that Clint decided he should step in. 

“Kid, are you alright?” Lowering his bow and arrow, he stilled and squinted at the teenager who was by this point doubled over, legs twisted better than a pretzel. Now that he was looking at the kid properly, rather than out of the corner of one eye, he realised that Peter was beginning to look… uncomfortable. Like, full-on, scrunched up-face kind of uncomfortable - a truly impressive pee face if ever there was such a thing.

Peter looked up, whimpering slightly. No. It was time to throw in the towel and admit that, yes, he had to pee. He had to pee quite badly in fact. It was getting to the point where he was finding the aches difficult to ignore, and all of his wriggling couldn’t quite bat the urges away. But he didn’t want for Mr. Barton to stop his own fun just so he could use the bathroom… he wasn’t a child, and he could wait until they were finished. “Yeah, Mr. Barton, I’m having so much fun!” He managed to say, surprising himself with how bright and breezy it came out with only a tiny hitch in voice. 

Of course, that didn’t mean Clint was any more convinced. He had kids, after all, and he knew a ‘gotta pee’ dance when he saw one - but he knew a ‘gotta pee and I’m too busy to get up and go’ dance even better than that. No wonder the boy was losing focus…  
Quirking a brow, the archer gave Peter one last chance.  
“Are you sure, kiddo?” He gently repeated, giving Peter a searching glare, the kind that he gave to his children when they were misbehaving.  
Clint found he couldn’t quite help it; teenager Peter may be, but he certainly didn’t act like it sometimes… he brought out all those paternal instincts Clint tried to keep under the surface when he was busy with the Avengers. 

“Y- Yes Mr. Barton,” Peter repeated in a tight voice. 

So that was the game he was playing, huh? Clint had definitely seen this in his own kids. Huh. Well, if that was the case, he wondered if the tricks he used on his own kids would work with Peter…“Alright, then.” Clint nodded slowly, agreeing. “I’m gonna head to the bathroom. You gonna come with?”He didn’t have to go, not really, but by leaving it meant their game was over for now. Usually his kids accepted that and gave in. 

Bathroom..? Peter hesitated and gave a shy nod, holding out the bow and arrow that Clint had gifted to him as he shimmied on the spot. If Clint needed to go too, that was different. That meant their archery was on pause for now. Clint didn’t say anything to him this time, just gave him a stern glance as the pair headed back inside.  
~

Peter was in a small rush as they got inside, as if his body knew he was closer to the bathroom. He squeezed his legs tightly in the midst of racing for the elevator. Clint had to jog to keep up, chuckling to himself. Boy, kid really did have to go. He managed to squeeze himself into the elevator before the doors closed on Peter, and Peter let out a small sigh. “JARVIS, level sixteen please.” he requested quietly, bouncing on his toes. 

“You don’t have to go all the way to level sixteen, you know. There are closer bathrooms.” Clint told the boy quietly. Nodding, Peter rubbed his eyes as he continued to squirm, all the talk of the bathroom making him impatient to get there. “I know, Mr. Barton, I’m kinda sleepy.” He whispered. It wasn’t a lie; after all of his twilight visits with Steve, he found himself struggling to get back into a comfortable sleep afterward. He spent most of his days with the Avengers biting back yawn after yawn.  
Clint frowned at him, studying the boy and thinking things over. Hm. He shouldn’t have tired so easily… perhaps he was coming down with something? He didn’t look too pale, but you could never know these things with kids, they came down with so many illnesses so quickly.  
“Oh, champ.” Clint said sympathetically, “take a nap afterward.” He encouraged. Peter nodded, thanking the archer as the elevator arrived on his level and he stepped off - still squirming. He looked to be heading toward his bedroom as he stepped from the elevator, and Clint was shooting daggers into his back.  
“Bathroom, kid.” he reminded in a murmur before the elevator doors snapped shut behind the two. He sighed. The kid was a teenager at the end of the day, Clint couldn’t help him out like he could with his own children. Peter had to work things out the hard way… perhaps then he’d listen a little more to the adults around him. 

As Peter headed away from the elevator he nodded tiredly, standing between his bathroom and his bedroom. He shifted his weight, toes bunching into the carpet and pawing at his jeans. Clint was right - he shoulda used the bathroom. He really did have to pee… he did… but he wasn’t a baby, he could hold it in a little longer. Just a little nap…  
Shuffling toward his bedroom, mind made up, Peter just about made himself set an alarm for thirty minutes before he collapsed into bed and was dead to the world. 

*

Exhausted, Peter slept soundly. He slept soundly even when ten minutes after he had drifted off - before he could even start dreaming - his achingly full bladder and all those tightly clamped muscles gave in, relaxed and released, sending a quickly spreading wet patch over the crotch of his sweatpants and down the inner lines of his thighs.  
Peter, asleep, let out a short whine of relief as he slumped back into the blankets - now able to fully relax into slumber despite the heavy wetness of his sheets. When the sheets grew cold and started to smell a little - roughly fifteen, twenty minutes - later was at the point he would usually wake up… but he was so relaxed, so exhausted, that he slept right through it all. Thirty minutes passed and though his alarm was blaring in his ears he continued to sleep, sleep, and sleep some more. In fact, the teenager slept for so long that he had started to squirm again, bladder freshly filled.  
He was dreaming now; running anxiously for the toilet, although it seemed to be getting further and further away from him. Mr. Stark wasn’t there - and neither was Mr. Rogers - but Mr. Barton was. “Come to the bathroom, kiddo,” he encouraged softly with a chuckle. Peter tried to get to the toilet, he really really did, but every time he got close enough then Mr. Barton would push him away with a mean laugh. Peter tried, and tried, and tried again, and he squeezed his legs tight and held on tightly to the front of his jeans but Mr. Barton kept pushing him and- and he fell and then… and then… then he started to pee and… it felt really, really good. And Peter did what he always did when he was doing a big pee - curled his toes and leaned back and said, ‘aahhh..’ - but he seemed to lean back further, and further, stretching more and more . . .

Peter woke with a start as his foot touched something cold and soggy. His brain still felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool, all fuzzy and tired. He was on the very edge of drifting off back to sleep when, pulling the blanket in closely to him, he felt that familiar heavy wetness - and then, slowly, he began to register that his clothes were wet and itchy too.  
That certainly woke Peter for good - he threw the blanket off of him as if it was on fire and began staring down at the wide wet patch that covered his entire crotch, insides of his thighs and the duvet and sheets, feeling horror fill his tummy. This was his second accident, his second accident in a row while he was at the Tower… Peter found himself instinctively looking for Steve to help him out. Steve had know what to do last night, and he would have known now. But… but he was on a mission - Peter couldn’t interrupt him on a mission!  
Don’t cry, Peter told himself as he stood up, soaked and dripping down his legs. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, he willed himself, even when he had pee dripping over his bare toes and a lump in his throat. The last thing he wanted was for Mr. Barton to find out about his accidents too; then he really would be out of the tower and sent home. The teenager started to pull the duvet and sheets from his bed, snivelling as he did so, tears glimmering in the corners of his eyes. He managed to pull the soiled sheets into a ball but, overwhelmed, just stared at them. Peter knew what he was meant to do - strip clothes, carry them to the laundry room, wash clothes - after all, he was there when Steve had done it, and he was there when Aunt May had done it too… but it still felt overwhelming. He suddenly felt too small to deal with this by himself, even though he was fifteen and more than capable.

Clint, meanwhile, was busy downstairs. With Peter napping and his teammates out, he decided to savour the quiet and head back outside to continue practising archery from where he had left off earlier this afternoon. Although, he couldn’t quite shake the sense of guilt that had sprouted in the pit of his stomach at the thought of heading out and not making the effort to at least invite Peter. Sighing to himself as he grabbed his archer’s bow, he headed out and down toward Peter’s room. The door was shut so as Clint came toward it he startled back slightly, concerned he was going to pull the teenager from a well deserved nap. Weighing it up in his mind, he knocked on the door anyway and leaned in. “Peter? I’m heading back outside, would you like to come with me?” he asked kindly. 

Peter felt as though he were on autopilot as he tried to gather up all of his wet sheets, jeans and pants to stealthily run to the washer — and near enough jumped out of his skin when Clint knocked on the door, the shock of it forcing a few stray tears to burst down his cheeks. “J- just a second!” He rasped, hurriedly wiping his face. In a panic, he threw the wet ball under the bed, stuffing it in deep and just managed to sling some fresh sweats on in double quick time. “O- okay, you can come in now,” he allowed, wincing as his voice came out strained from holding back tears.  
Clint wasn’t stupid. Clint knew something was wrong just from the child’s tone; Peter almost sounded as if he was going to burst into tears. Jiggling the doorknob, he stepped inside and frowned at the sight of the teen, all puffy teary eyes. “Do you wa— are... you alright, kiddo?”

“Hm? Yeah, yeah!” Peter said in his best ‘bright and breezy’ voice, even though his voice was still fraying at the edges as though he was on the edge of crying. Clint squinted at him - squinted hard, in that ‘I don’t quite believe you’ way that all adults seemed to have perfected. It reminded Peter of Aunt May and he found it very, very hard not to blurt out the truth there and then. He rubbed his eyes, lip trembling. 

Clint continued to frown. “Kiddo, where did your bedsheets go?” He realised, seeing the bed bare - with a faint telltale wet patch stretching over it. As soon as Clint caught sight of the wet spot, the situation became crystal clear in his mind, though he kept his lips zipped. “Did Mr. Stark not get you any fresh ones?” He asked, voice loaded with faux concern. 

“N- no, I..” Peter stuttered, an anxious knot worming its way into his tummy, and he started to play with his thumbs. He.. he didn’t want to get Mr. Stark into trouble! “It’s.. it’s no problem, really..” he laughed nervously, but his laugh turned into a sob at the end. 

It hurt Clint not to give in when he heard the sob, but still he pressed on. “Sure? I mean, if you want me to I can talk to him about it..” Clint began softly. 

“No!” Peter blurted but there was no ammunition in his voice - he was soft and quiet now, and his breathing was starting to pick up as he tried to keep himself from crying. “Clint, I- I don’t need fresh sheets. I- I mean.. I have some already, I- I just..” the lump in his throat got heavier and heavier, he keened around it and eventually started to cry lightly, the tears dribbling in little silver trails down his cheeks. 

Theeeere it was. “Kid, what’s going on..?” Clint asked knowingly, kneeling to Peter’s level. 

Peter wiped his wet face with a snivel, lips pursed and trembling. “I- I wet the bed jus’ now, Mr. Barton.” he admitted in a tiny voice. 

At this admission Clint nodded, patting his shoulder comfortingly in complete understanding. Of course. “S’fine, kiddo. Where are your sheets? Would you like some help clearing up?” He asked kindly. Peter was more than capable of cleaning up, Clint knew that, but he looked so small that he thought it better to help him out a bit. The teenager was quiet, only snivelling to himself as he sheepishly pulled his soaked sheets and clothes from under the bed. Clint said nothing to the boy at this point, just nodded as he gathered up the sheets from Peter’s arms and carried them toward the washer. He was vaguely aware of Peter trailing after him like a little ghost, not quite sure of what to do with himself. Clint recognised that from his own children, too. “Pete,” he said in his best, ‘listen to my instructions’ kind of voice - one that sounded unusually close to his ‘Papa Clint’ voice, in fact. “why don’t you jump in the shower while I sort your bedsheets out?”

Hesitating, Peter nodded. He shyly slipped into the bathroom as Mr. Barton began to load the washer up, quietly shed his clothes and stepped into the shower, watching the water thunder in hot pellets against the tub. Now... now Mr. Barton knew he wet his bed, and so did Steve. They... well, they seemed friendly... so perhaps they wouldn’t tell the others? Regardless, he was on shaky ground now, if any more of the Avengers found out that he was having accidents all over the place he would be the laughing stock of the team... there had to be a way for the accidents to stop. Peter could only come up with one solution and as he showered, running the soap suds over his legs, his mind was made up.

He was going to stay awake all night long. 

It didn’t sound too good to him, but it was the only choice he had. Stepping out of the shower, Peter re-dressed himself and, lost in his own head, stepped from the bathroom... only to run directly into Barton. “M- Mr. Barton!” He startled, freezing and stepping back instinctively. 

“‘Hey’ to you too, Peter.” Clint chuckled. “You think you can squeeze in some lunch?”

Come to think of it, Peter was pretty hungry now. He’d had an energetic day when you took out the napping and the shower, and his stomach was beginning to growl it was so empty. “Sure!” He chirped as the pair began their journey to the Tower’s kitchenette. “Can I have some energy juice?” 

(He had to prepare, after all.)

“As if you don’t have enough energy already?” Clint teased. “‘Course, kid. They’re Tony’s, but as he isn’t here, I don’t think he’ll mind.”

Peter nodded gratefully, and the two walked in silence for a while. Clint, thoughtful, stilled the teen as they got to the common room of the tower. “Peter?” He asked.  
His voice was gentle, and once Peter was sure that he wasn’t going to be shouted at, he listened. “Hmm?”

“Has that happened before?” Clint queried, “the bedwetting?”  
(He found himself thinking of Peter’s mattress and why it wasn’t flipped over to the dry side. That was bedwetting solution number one, surely.)

Peter hesitated as to whether he should tell Clint that yes, it had happened already and Steve had helped him out. A lot of times. He thought of Steve and if he would be angry at him for keeping a secret. Was this really a secret, or was it an outright lie…? Maybe Steve would be angry at him if he found out that he had lied. Huh. Peter had never seen Steve angry before. But still, he found himself shaking his head. “No, Mr. Barton. This was the first time.” Peter said as he looked at his feet, voice no higher than a whisper. 

“Alright, kid.” Clint murmured after a second of hesitation. He was sure the kid was lying through his teeth - something just didn’t feel right to the archer. But, he couldn’t press the kid for any more details, he had to let Peter come forward in his own time. He patted Peter’s back as they headed into the kitchen.  
“If that ever happens again, Peter, you know you can come to me for help.” he affirmed, voice tender. 

Peter nodded with a small smile playing on his lips - although, with his plan in place, he was sure neither of them had to worry.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like Clint's kids are like,,, way older than I made them out to be in this? I mean in endgame im pretty sure his kids are like early teens ish? so if we ignore that which I am, they're younger? Ok good. 
> 
> IDK if there's more of this coming. I think so?
> 
> I'm really regretting posting these out of order now but okay im gonna die on this hill


End file.
